


Into The Quiet Sea

by PendersleighInGloom



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/M, Gen, James' non-Hamilton relationships, James-centric, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 21:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19237699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PendersleighInGloom/pseuds/PendersleighInGloom
Summary: There is yet a wailing child left in every broken man.The tale of London's ‘troublesome McGraw boy’ as he adapts, evolves, and endures; brawling in Hyde Park, kissing boys in dark alleyways, studying furiously in dying candlelight, fearing his own heart, and sailing under the Nassau sun. His first breath to his last, and the story in-between.





	Into The Quiet Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Upon a re-watch of Season Two, I realised just how moved I was by James and his character arc. It's a story that is very real to me, and a personally relatable one too. I wrote this as a tribute to my favourite television character, a man who was so innately human in a world that forced his hand to act otherwise. I hope you enjoy this fic, and please reach out if you have any comments, questions, or concerns.

James McGraw is born into a family of five. Two sisters and two brothers, a carpenter for a father and a butcher’s daughter for a mother. Middle son, central London, his eldest sister acting as a midwife. He bloodied the birthing bed more than his siblings, it was said. The stains in the sheets never washed away.

His earliest memory is not of the sea. Perhaps it would have been if he were more poetically made, but alas, he is only a man. His earliest memory is, in fact, of his sister’s smile and falling hard on the frozen Thames, laugher brimming in his throat. Her hands were soft, he remembers this, and the river stunk of piss and shit and sweat, but he loved it still, with the undiscerning enthusiasm of a child. He has a scar on his calf, where he slipped and developed a friction burn from the ice. It is an ugly scar, but he clings to it with both hands and never lets go. It is a memory he wishes never to forget.

He is seven when he throws his first punch. It is at a boy next door, a child older than he, stronger than he, but the boy has stolen a fresh-baked loaf of bread from their home. His mother, with a child growing in her belly, must eat. James is too young to understand the high ideas of justice and ethics, but a swell of heat consumes his mind, and he knows this: a thief must be punished. He thirsts for a challenge. They fight in Hyde Park, grabbing at twigs and slamming each other against trees. In the end, James slings his arm around the boy’s neck and chokes the air from his lungs. He leaves the boy panting and gasping on the grass, a sputtering breath coming from his throat like death. James returns home that night with a bloody lip and a dark spark in his heart. His sister wipes away the blood with a liquor-soaked rag and kisses his bruises away. He stares into her honey eyes and wonders if he will know any love truer than this.

It is two months later his brother, christened William McGraw, is born. It is that same morning he dies. It is an hour later his mother does too. There is blood. Too much blood. Red so bright and persistent it threatens to swallow him up and wash him out to sea. He is afraid of the ocean. He is more afraid of this one than any other. His father orders him, with a finger at the door and a tear-torn voice — _Out!_ Later that night, he wobbles in, tears running down his round cheeks, and cries into his mother’s pale hands. He falls asleep by the foot of her bed, small hands still grasping her limp forearm. He wishes never to wake.

In the months following her death, James becomes much more violent. He shouts obscenities at the baker’s boy, pulls the pigtails of the butcher’s girl. _Hit them before they hit you._ He smashes the liquor bottles at his mother’s inn, holding their shattered pieces against any patron who dares even glance his way. His father takes a rough hand to him later, scotch heavy on his breath, bending him over a stool and hitting his bared skin until it rubs red. _You do not, under any circumstance, hurt our reputation, you hear me? You cost me the respect of three men today. I’ll not have it._ He hits him again when he notices him crying. _You better not behave like this out there. This won’t stop until you quash your weaknesses. Your sister, she’s softened you. You’re a boy. Act it._ James bites his lip so hard he draws blood. Later, his sister bandages his hands, smooths a salve on his bruised skin, holds him tight in her arms as he cries quietly into her shoulder. She sings a song to mask the sounds of his whimpers. He wonders if he could live without her.

His violence persists. _The troublesome McGraw boy. Did you hear what he’s up to now?_ The seamstress’ son calls his mother a harlot, mocking laughter on his tongue. James chokes him until he sees black. The boy rasps out desperate apologies, one after another, dozens. James lets him go and he scrambles home. His father assures the seamstress, standing in the orange glow of his office, that he will punish his unruly son — _Justice will be given, ma’am._  But they return home. And his father only sighs and rubs his temples. His face has grown older in the months past. Gaunt. James waits for his hand to come down. It doesn’t. _Please,_  he begs,  _James. You’re a good boy. Do not make me doubt it. I do not seek to discipline you; it pains my soul to hurt you, and it appears to have no effect on you. James, I only ask this: that you stop this madness._ James nods quietly; he finds no alternative action. He has not ever seen his father this broken. His father reaches for a half-drained bottle and drinks down the rest of the whisky and James hears the faintest echo of a sob rise in his throat. _Come here,_  he says and holds his son close to his heart, _I’m so sorry._

Three years later, his eldest sister marries a boy. His name is Alec Manning and he is a learned young man from Hampstead, with a steady voice and cropped black hair. He helps their father with the cooking, a watchful eye on the pot; speaks of politics with his eldest brother, making eloquent points of Whitehall; picks flowers to put in his second sister’s hair; plays in the dirt with his younger half-brother; takes his eldest sister in his arms, grass stains on his breeches, a true smile upon his face, and calls her, sweetly, _My Dearest Elizabeth_. He is who James seeks to become — chivalrous, intelligent, and well-loved. Alec speaks of this man called Homer, of the name Spinoza, of the liberal ideas of Locke. And little James does not know much about these men with strange names, but a twinkle in his eye arises when Alec speaks of their ideas.

James approaches him one summer afternoon, a stolen parchment, pen, and inkwell in his nervous hands, and asks, _Can you teach me to write?_ After a pause, _Please?_  Alec sits him on his lap, between his sturdy thighs, and wraps James’ fingers around the pen. He watches as Alec’s gentle hands guide his, and something sparks in his heart as the black ink runs smooth across the paper. Alec writes the words and reads them out loud, slowly, and James follows with eager eyes and ears. _Tell me about a complicated man. Muse, tell me how he wandered and was lost. when he had wrecked the holy town of Troy, and where he went, and who he met, the pain he suffered in the storms at sea, and how he worked to save his life and bring his men back home..._

James doesn’t sleep until dawn that night. He lies awake, tracing the new letters on his palm, whispering them as he does. A smile blooms on his face. He rolls over as the sky grows lighter, allowing the ancient words on his tongue lull him to sleep. He is at peace. He is happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that was the first chapter. Admittedly, it’s a little short, but the following ones will likely be longer. Kudos, comments, and feedback (critical or positive) are always appreciated. Until next time!
> 
> Note: Yes, I know the passage from the Odyssey that Alec teaches James to write is from the Emily Wilson translation and would not have existed in that time. Still, it is my favourite translation, so we’re rolling with that one, lads. Also, I know for multi-chaptered works I usually put a preview for the upcoming chapter. I’ve been pressed for time lately, so I haven’t been able to, but for future chapters, I definitely will.


End file.
